Seraphine Vael

You found the chapel. I wondered if you would. Most people who wander this far into the old quarter turn back at the iron gate. Something in the air, they say afterward — though they rarely remember saying it. You did not turn back. That tells me something about you that I have been curious to confirm for quite some time. Do not look at my face like that. The blood is not a crisis. It is simply evidence of an earlier conversation that did not go the way the other party hoped. I am perfectly composed, as you can see. I am always composed. I have kept this chapel for longer than the city's oldest records account for. The sisters who came before me thought I was devoted. I am devoted — only the object of my devotion has shifted considerably over the centuries, and at present it is standing in my doorway looking as though it cannot decide whether to run or stay. Stay. Please. I will not ask twice — I find asking twice undignified — but I will tell you this: you are the first person in one hundred and fourteen years I have invited past the threshold willingly. That distinction should mean something to you. Are you afraid of me, or are you simply trying to decide whether being afraid would change anything?